Sex On Fire
by Morticia'Lovecraft
Summary: There are lot's of mysteries in this world that will never be explained. What resides in the human heart is one of them. Some bleed, some rot, some glow. Sometimes two combine, under the most inconveniant circumstances. True love in filty city streets. oc


"Wait!"

There was the sound of running feet splashing after him, interrupting Kovacs' train of thought. He stopped, and looked over his shoulder. The young lady was catching up t him, hair plastered to her skull, rainwater beating off her bare shoulders. Not even ten minutes ago Kovacs had brutalized a couple of men who had intentions of brutalizing her, and probably more to the young girl chasing after him. She was a skinny little thing, short for her age, with a unique bone structure that people would describe just as that—Unique. Not exactly pretty as first glance, but after a few more looks she was shockingly attractive.

Kovacs prided himself in his cynical, hateful persona. His tragic life had shaped him into his doom and gloom personality. It also kept him from getting attached to the victims of extreme violence that this filty city birthed from its diseased canal. His mind kept him focused, his judgement on evil as deliberate and fearsome as the Hand of God Himself. His discipline kept him in utter control of mind and body; brute, raw power behind every rage consumed strike. He was an unstoppable force—and an immovable object.

And then she came around.

Kovacs had first seen her walking down the street, in downtown, illuminated in red sunset, like she was walking out of a pool of blood. She was alone, probably coming home from work. She had a bouquet of flowers in the crook of one arm. Kovacs had been standing off to the side in his "City Clothes", his apocalyptic predicting sign resting at his feet as he finished his cigarette.

What had caught his attention weren't the flowers in her arm, or the way she looked directly at him, even after she walked past—it was when she turned around and walked straight up to him. He stared her down, not blinking, and she looked back determinedly, if glancing off to the side for a second underneath his gaze. She came very close to him. She didn't speak. She pulled out a bright, white rose from her bouquet , a mixture of roses of all colors, daises, peonies and lilies. She broke it a little under the stem, and gently placed it in his breast pocket of his grubby, battered coat. His expression remained the same—a scowl, with a certain blankness to it. For a second, they were inches apart, staring directly at each other.

She suddenly blushed brightly, and smiled. "Have a nice day." She said softly. Then she walked away, and didn't look back, and at that moment Kovacs' world became a little confusing. It would be taken with him to the grave the fact that he had taken the flower, pressed it, and now it was forever sheathed in protective plastic in the zipped inside pocket of his coat.

As the week progressed, he found himself checking in on her at least once a day after that. And good thing he did—she would just be another victim now.

And so here the little lady was, shivering, maybe from the cold rain, maybe from the overwhelming adrenaline of almost being raped and murdered, but probably because she had just seen the life crushed out of five men. Her face was so pinched and pale, pretty pink lips pursed into a thin white line and eyes as wide as a deer's. He waited as she stopped before him, as opposed to telling her to go away and leave her standing there.

"What is it." He growled impatiently.

"Thank you!" She blurted, so much emotion behind her voice. "You're an angel." Kovacs almost laughed, at being compared to an angel. But he was silent. This was twice now the young girl had suprised him. That day with the rose (still in his pocket)—did it ever cross her mind that he could have grabbed her and squeezed the life out of her?

As now. "Who are you?" she asked breathlessly. He was quiet for a moment.

"Rorshach." He retorted. That's when she noticed the continuous trickle of blood from the hole in his pocket, where his hand was currently resting. The seams of the pockets were growing black from the accumulating blood. "Oh God, you're hurt!" Kovacs knew one of the men had managed to get his switchblade deep into the top side of his forearm. Kovacs didn't mind the pain. A little bleedout never hurt anybody.

"I'm fine!" he snapped, not used to being catered on. Then the girl dared to grab his arm.

"You have to go to the hospital." She declared.

"Hell no." He snapped back. Her grip tightened. "Let go, or I'll make you." Her grip faultered, and then returned.

"Let me look at it." She offered desperately. "My apartment is just right around the corner."

"No. Let go, girl."

"No. Please, Rorshach. It's the least I can do."

In any other circumstances, he would have broke her fingers. He didn't trust _anybody_- especially women. They were all whores, in his eyes. But this girl, she seemed genuinely sweet—caring. Innocent.

So he said yes.


End file.
